


Find a Better Prize

by sunsetmog



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-23 11:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16158260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: Boy looks at another boy standing on a rock, or: someone's sending Nick gifts.





	Find a Better Prize

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: “Treat you like a gentleman” (Harry Styles, Medicine). Harry likes spoiling Nick. It’s a thing.
> 
> Well, let me just say, this prompt did not take me where I thought it would do. The kink negotiation/Nick gets spoilt story I anticipated writing will have to wait for another day. Instead, have this story where Together In Electric Dreams features as a prominent plot point. 
> 
> Thank you to **writcraft** for running this excellent fest. This story is also based off one of your prompts, I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Accompanying Spotify playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1zXWTgOryikFJXFgQ58N7w).

The gift, when Nick finally opens it, doesn't have an explanatory note. There's just a little tag, nestled carefully between the small box and its silk wrapping, a tag that just says _H_. 

"H, hmm?" Aimee says, with the kind of raised eyebrow that means she's off Nick's Christmas card list. "Wonder who that could be?"

"Fuck off," Nick says, because the H is handwritten, but the little box is exquisitely wrapped, and Harry Styles might be a lot of things, but a professional present-wrapper is probably a step too far. 

"What's he sent you, then?"

"It might not be him," Nick says, because it might not be. Harry's been gone for a while now, writing in the Caribbean, living in different places, and now touring. Nick's got used to him not being around, and a courier-delivered gift at 2.30pm on a Saturday doesn't exactly lend itself to the norm anymore. 

"Sure," Aimee says. "What's inside?" Sunday's come over to investigate too, the pleasure of unwrapping a present much more exciting than the Jammy Dodger she's been carefully dismembering for the last five minutes with the aid of Pig Dog and Stinky. Aimee takes the opportunity to remove the biscuity crumbs from Nick's floor, which is nice of her. 

Nick lets Sunday help him unwrap the bow. Inside the box are three Tom Ford silk pocket squares, one in navy chevrons, one in feathered tiger print, and one in jaguar spots. They're beautiful. 

"Cool," Aimee says. "Any idea why?"

Nick runs his thumb over the silk. "No," he says carefully. "None whatsoever."

Two weeks later it's a Kenzo backpack, and a week after that, a Ralph Lauren scarf. They all come with handwritten gift tags, a familiar _H_ , but nothing else. 

"What's he doing, buying you all this stuff?" Collette asks, peering over Nick's shoulder at a piece of art that makes virtually no sense to look at, all swirling colours and bright shards of feeling and a frame Nick probably wouldn't have picked himself. It had been delivered late last night, after Nick had got home from work. 

"I don't know," Nick says, and it isn't until later, when Collette's gone and Nick's by himself that he looks at the back of the painting, at its name embedded into the frame. 

_Boy looks at another boy standing on a rock_

There's no note this time, nothing at all, and he doesn't text Harry, just like he didn't after the handkerchiefs, or the rucksack, or the scarf that's come too early in the season for him to wear. 

That evening, he plays Avicii's _Wake Me Up_ on his show, and tries to let it go. 

~*~

He finds a space to hang his new painting, and when it's up, he instagrams Pig in front of it, sleepily snoring after a busy day of racing about the house like a lunatic. 

If he spends his evening repeatedly checking his phone for a message, then that's no one's business but his own. 

~*~

"You seeing Harry then, or what?" Alexa asks him over lunch on Thursday. 

Nick pauses, mouth open, fork in the air. He's eating some kind of hipster ancient grain vegan salad that is reportedly good for him but isn't holding his attention. He closes his mouth abruptly. "What?"

Alexa keeps looking at him and doesn't say anything else, which doesn't help Nick in trying to get them both on the same page. 

He resorts to just putting his fork down, then saying "What?" again. 

"You know," she says, like he's stupid, which he might be. He certainly feels stupid. "Don't be an idiot, Grim."

He opens the show with _We Can't Stop_. 

~*~

He gets woken up in the morning by the doorbell. It's a plant, of all things, a huge one, as tall as Nick and in a dark blue pot the size of a foot stool. There's a typewritten note that promises him it's safe for dogs, but at the end there's a handwritten _H_ , just like all the others, except that this time it's accompanied by a tiny _x_. 

He sends a text message to Harry that just says _H x?_ , and then he takes the dogs out into the garden and lets them run around and pee and generally cause chaos until it's been so long since Nick checked his phone that technology must have moved on to the point that his is probably obsolete. 

Harry's responded with a video. It's not of anything, not really, just a bottle of water on a countertop. The music playing in the background is Duke Dumont. 

Nick watches the video five times on loop, listens to _need you, 100%_ over and over until his heart threatens to thump its way out of his chest. 

After a while he texts back, _boom clap_ , and locks his phone. 

~*~

That night he plays _since u been gone_ on the show. His phone stays quiet. 

~*~

The doorbell goes on a Saturday morning. Nick's hungover and been sitting out on his back step, feet outside while he has a ciggie and a cup of coffee and the dogs entertain themselves by being complete wankers for a bit, chasing each other in circles. They go properly mental at the doorbell, doing nothing at all for Nick's inner peace, darting in past him with no respect for the tail end of his cigarette or his coffee or the last vestiges of his hangover. No chance of pretending to the postman that he's not in, then, not with them falling over each other to have a good bark. 

It's not the postman, though. It's Harry. Harry, bearing gifts. 

"Hey," Harry says, from behind sunglasses and a beanie and workout gear. 

It's been months. "Hey," Nick says. His heart's pounding. He hides it behind stopping his dogs running out into the road. "Come in. They're idiots today. Don't know why."

"Missed me, haven't they?" Harry says, waiting until the door's closed to put his bags down and crouch down onto his heels so that he can say hello to Nick's dogs. "Hi, babies. Hi."

"Eh," Nick says, over the sound of his heart. _Boom clap_ indeed. 

Harry straightens up. He smiles. It's always done weird things to Nick's insides, that smile, and that hasn't changed just because there's been a series of odd, unexplained gifts over the last six weeks. Odd, unexplained, _expensive_ gifts. 

"Boom, clap," Harry says. 

"I missed you," Nick says, because he could have said _I'm in my mum's car_ , but he hadn't. 

"Missed you too," Harry says, and something inside of Nick twists. 

"Thanks for the presents."

Harry's eyes are bright. "You liked them?"

"They were nice," Nick says. "Boy looks at another boy standing on a rock."

Neither of them are standing on a rock, but it doesn't stop them from looking. 

"Someone's got to spoil you," Harry says, after a while. The dogs bicker around their feet. 

"Do they?" Nick says finally. 

"They do," Harry says. "I do." He swallows. "Nick—"

"Don't," Nick says. "If you're going to leave again, don't do this."

Harry looks at him. "You didn't call me. You didn't message or anything. I didn't know if you liked the presents."

"Course I liked them," Nick says. "They're from you, aren't they, you idiot."

"Grimmy—"

Nick turns around. "I'll put the kettle on," he says, already half way down the hall. "Take it you're staying long enough for tea."

"Nick," Harry says. He doesn't follow Nick down the hall. 

"You don't stay," Nick says. "Spoil me all you like, but you don't fucking stay. You never fucking stay."

"You never fucking ask me to."

Nick stops at that. When he turns around, Harry's just standing where he left him, at the foot of the stairs, surrounded by bags. 

"You never fucking ask me to stay," Harry says, and he's quieter this time. "What do I have to do to get you to ask me to stay?"

"What," Nick says, and it's not a fucking question, because he hasn't got it in him. "Harry—"

"Ask me to stay," Harry says. He waits a beat. "Please."

Nick swallows. He's not sure he understands what's going on but he understands the look on Harry's face. 

"Nick."

"Stay," Nick says. "Stay."

~*~

Nick makes coffee and offers coconut almond milk like it's normal. Harry takes it like it is normal - and it probably is, him of the man buns and the yoga pants - and neither of them say anything. 

Nick remembers Harry when he was younger and starting out, when he was so happy just to be around Nick and his friends, then when he'd lost that initial shine and he was just that person Nick messaged all the fucking time. After that he was more gone than not, and Nick got on with his life and resorted to making space whenever Harry showed up. 

"You wanted me to ask you to stay," Nick says finally, when they're both leaning against the kitchen counters. 

Harry tilts his chin up. "I don't want to—" He stops, takes a breath. "I like buying you things. I've always liked that, and now I've realised… I just want to keep doing that. Spoiling you."

"I can buy my own things."

"You're well rich," Harry says, which is not quite the truth, and nothing like the money that Harry has in the bank, but at least he doesn't have to worry about making the mortgage repayments every month. "It's not about that."

Nick lets out a breath. "Sit down," he says. "Come through and sit down. I missed you, you idiot. I always fucking miss you."

Harry crooks a smile. It looks a little awkward. "I brought breakfast. We could have it."

"And you've left it out there with the gannets? There'll be nothing left."

"It's boxed up," Harry says. "They've not got opposable thumbs yet."

"You grew up with cats," Nick says, with a roll of his eyes. His dogs can destroy anything they put their mind to, and definitely if they can smell food. They just seem a lot more interested in jumping up at Harry's knees right now, which is fine, because Harry's knees are the knobbly enemy. "I'll get your bags."

Harry's bags consist of a large hessian shopper with a cool bag inside of it, and yes, it seems to have retained a relatively solid shape, and a very expensive weekender. Nick brings them both into the living room, and Harry's graduated from standing awkwardly by the sofa with his coffee cup to standing by _boy looks at another boy standing on a rock_. 

"I felt something when I looked at this," Harry says. "That's why I got it for you."

There are bold stripes of colour in the painting, and some of them feel like shards. It hurts, just a bit. There's nothing that's noticeably a boy, or another boy, or a rock. 

It doesn't mean that they're not there. 

"Unrequited love, maybe," Nick says. 

Harry glances at him. "From which of them?"

"Both, I think." Nick puts the bags down on one of the seats, and comes over to stand by Harry's side. "It's not like it's weighted from one side of the painting and not the other. It's both of them."

"Boy looking at a boy standing on a rock looking right back at him," Harry says. 

"Yeah," Nick says softly. "Yeah."

~*~

They eat some kind of Middle Eastern smoked meat hash for breakfast that Harry's picked up from the hipster weekend brunch place near his house. Harry puts the telly on and flicks through the music channels until he gets to the one that tends to just play 80s music over and over. It starts playing _Together in Electric Dreams_. 

Harry puts the remote down.

"Christ," Nick says. "Did you pay them to put this on, or what?"

"Just good luck," Harry says. The lyrics feel sharp-edged. "It did, you know."

"What the fuck," Nick says, which he thinks makes more sense than Harry, although right now it isn't hard. 

"Taught me to be brave," Harry says, in time with the music. He crooks another awkward smile. "The friendship that you gave."

"Rhymes," Nick says, for lack of anything better to say.

"Eh," Harry says. "Is it a real love song if it doesn't rhyme?"

Christ. Nick puts his plate down on the coffee table, next to where Harry's dumped his. "Harold—"

"Cos it's a love song from where I'm standing," Harry says quickly. "You and me. It's a love song for me."

"Harry."

"You can say no."

Nick can't say no. He's got no fucking idea what he would even saying no to, but he can't fucking say it. 

He rubs his palm over his cheek. He needs a shave. His hangover's still there, but just a little bit, settling somewhere under the Middle Eastern hash. His fingertips tingle. 

"The presents were lovely," he says finally. "They were all lovely. I should have said thank you properly."

"Why didn't you, then?"

"Dunno," Nick says, although he does know. Stinky Blob flops over in front of the telly. Nick waits a bit longer and the pause stretches out. "Sometimes I try and remember what it was like when I didn't love you, you know, and I can't."

"Can't love me?"

"Can't remember a time when I didn't." He tries for a smile, and totally fucking fails at it. "You started sending me that stuff, and I just thought, like, _don't fucking hope. Don't you dare fucking hope._ You know?"

"Don't you dare fucking hope," Harry says. He sounds careful. 

"Yeah. Cos, like, I could hope. I could have been hoping for years, but I wasn't, you know? Cos I think if I had, I might have just like, stopped doing anything else."

Harry touches him, then, covers Nick's knee with his palm. His pyjama bottoms are only thin, and it's almost like Harry's touching him, skin to skin. 

Almost. 

"What are you offering?" Nick asks, after a moment where it's possible his heart is working up to beating right out of his chest. "You're offering something, right? I'm not just, like, dreaming this whole thing? Because I could be. I did have a bit to drink last night. I might be dreaming now. Sounds like something I'd do."

"Wish me into existence?"

"Wish you into loving me," Nick says, before he can stop himself. "Fucking hell, I really want you to love me."

Harry smiles at that. "Surprise, motherfucker," he says. His hand moves on Nick's knee, just a little bit. Barely enough to be a stroke. "If you go out tonight, I'm going out." 

Nick cocks his head to one side. 

"Cos you're persuasive," Harry says, like any of this makes any sense. "Because I want to be where you are. I always want to be where you are."

"You're not making any sense."

Harry looks at him then, and Nick considers just laying himself open and letting Harry have his pick of what's inside. It would be easier than trying to articulate any of what's going on in his head, or his heart. Just have at him. 

"You should try listening harder," Harry says, and then, and _then_ , he moves, shifting so that he's kneeling over Nick, knees either side of Nick's thighs. "One of these days I'm going to put you in a song."

"Christ," Nick says. He settles his hands in the small of Harry's back. His heart's pounding. Harry's a real, living, breathing thing in his lap. Nick's not dreaming him. 

"Maybe I already have," Harry says, cupping Nick's face in his hands. "Maybe they're all about you."

Nick tries to smile. He can't. "Stay," he says softly, and his voice betrays him at the last, the wobble at the end he can't hide. "I love you. For God's sake, just stay."

Harry kisses him then, closes the distance between them and presses his mouth to Nick's. 

Boy looks at another boy standing on a rock. 

Nick kisses him back, and Harry stays.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](http://magicalrocketships.tumblr.com/post/179389787583/find-a-better-prize-by-sunsetmog-nickharry).


End file.
